The Pilgrimage of the Ring
by ThePet
Summary: *Now with added angst on the way* essentially a two part piece, the first part being charming-adventure-with-endearing-young-warrior-of-Gondor fic, the second part angsty-doomed love-and-suicide-with-a-twist fic. Read A/N for full summary. Please R+R!
1. The Man upon the hill

Chapter One  
  
A/N The story finally starts here…most songs/poems where they appear were not written by self but lifted or adapted from traditional English folk songs. Titles given, complete lyrics on request, it's an unusual genre but some of them are really lovely.  
  
  
  
These words were composed  
  
By Spencer the Rover  
  
Who travelled Great Britain  
  
And most parts of Wales  
  
He had been much reduced  
  
Which caused great confusion  
  
And that was the reason  
  
1 He took to the road*  
  
  
  
On the swell of a grassy hill, his cloak wrapped close around him and his gazed fixed on the darkening winter sky, a Man stood, and watched the coming night in silent contemplation, all alone. To the creature moving slowly along the base of the hill the Man was little more than a silhouette; he appeared as a statue carved from a curious misty stone, a strange figure indeed with one hand by his side and the other resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.  
  
The creature, whose name was Tirian, usually took pains to avoid company, but this invader of its barren territory had aroused its curiosity. Tirian had followed the man of Gondor – for his powerful stature, fair face and grey eyes marked him out as such – for many days, his presence noted but tolerated or ignored, but Tirian had not yet chosen to speak with him. If indeed the Man spoke at all, for he seemed so dark and brooding, so detached from his surroundings, that conversation seemed highly unlikely.  
  
Nevertheless, Tirian, whose species and lineage was almost entirely indeterminate, was an inquisitive creature, and its curiosity eventually won out over its love of solitude. Circling slowly around the hill, getting higher and higher by degrees, it gradually approached the Man, who by the time of its ascent was sitting upon the ground and taking bread from his scrip.  
  
Tirian settled behind a bush for a moment and watched the Man tear a chunk from the loaf. Carefully, the creature crept forward, moving silently, until it was within a few feet of the other. Without warning, the Man sprang to his feet, drew his sword, which gleamed eerily in the dying light, and placed it at the trembling creature's throat.  
  
"What do you want?" He demanded, in a voice husky with long disuse. "Why do you follow me?" Tirian, shrinking back from the sword's glinting tip, addressed the Man for the first time in a croaking, lisping voice, like the hiss of an ancient serpent.  
  
"You are in my place."  
  
"What? Explain."  
  
"This is my place." The Man narrowed his eyes suspiciously.  
  
"What is your claim to it, then? Speak!"  
  
"I…live here." Tirian whispered. "And you will please…take your blade from my throat. I mean you no harm, Man of Gondor." Still suspicious, as was typical of his species, the tall stranger withdrew the weapon. True enough, this little creature looked far from dangerous, but one could never be too sure in these largely uncharted regions of Middle-Earth.  
  
"How do you know me?" Tirian gazed up at him with glittering yellow eyes.  
  
"By your appearance, and your manner. Now that we are acquainted, I welcome you to my home. It has been many years since Men have visited these lands. I would be most interested to hear your tale. What brings you to such distant parts, so far from the homelands of your people?" The stranger sighed; replacing his sword in its scabbard he sank down upon the ground once more. Tirian, scenting victory, crept a little closer to him, and sat also, although it barely reached the Man's waist while standing.  
  
"If I have offended you with my caution, I apologise. I accept your welcome with thanks. But I would ask…" the grey eyes swept thoughtfully over the small, twisted being crouched upon the grass, "what are you?"  
  
"My name is Tirian." Replied the creature simply. "People I have none. I would ask your name, visitor to the barren lands." The Man appeared loathe to give any information away. He turned his gaze to the last shreds of sunset disappearing behind distant, dark mountains. Eventually he said,  
  
"My name is Boromir."  
  
"And who is your father?" Whispered Tirian, it being so rare for a Man to introduce himself without giving the name of his ancestors.  
  
"My father is the Steward of Gondor." The question and its answer seemed to discomfort him. Tirian studied its guest thoughtfully, swaying a little, back and forth.  
  
"And what," it said eventually, "brings you here, my Lord?" There came no answer. Tirian tried again. "What are you seeking?"  
  
"How do you know that I seek anything?"  
  
"Men are always seeking something." Replied the creature. "Especially young Men like you. It seems strange to me that a young Lord would wish to pass his life as a Ranger."  
  
"I am simply a wanderer. I know not what I seek. But I know that there is solace in the mountains, in the lakes, in the night, in solitude itself. I have been all over Middle-Earth, Tirian; I have travelled with elves and with dwarves and with Halflings, and with a fair Royal whom I will not name. I have seen all the peaceful and beautiful and terrible places – the Shire, Rivendell, the Mines of Moria. I have walked through the forests and sailed the seas and rivers. I have witnessed wonderful and dreadful things, all alone. And yet I do not know what it is I seek." Tirian had remained silent during this melancholy speech; now he leaned forward, peering at its guest with its spidery gnarled hands twisted together.  
  
"It seems to me," it murmured, "that what you seek is a way of returning home." The Man gazed at Tirian curiously, then lowered his head with a small sigh.  
  
"Perhaps." He whispered. "But that is impossible."  
  
"Maybe you have quarrelled with your father?" Tirian crept closer still, eyeing the Man's scrip. Boromir gave a weary half-smile, tore the loaf of bread in half and offered one of the pieces to Tirian. The creature took it, retreated a few inches, and began to eat. Through mouthfuls of bread it entreated,  
  
"Tell me your tale, Man of Gondor. For many years it has been since I heard a story, and you and I both have the time." The Man seemed to hesitate, a desire for solitude and a need to share the burden of his sorrow warring in his proud breast. After some moments, with a sigh of resignation, he drew his cloak around him, and settled back. Tirian leaned forward with its thin fingers steepled and its yellow eyes peering intently at the Man's face, as the wanderer began to tell his story.  
  
  
  
A/N What do you think so far? Obviously nothing has really happened yet. The scene is set however for our dejected wanderer to tell his tale. You've probably realised who he isn't and perhaps who he is already. From now on he can tell some of the story for himself. Please review! ;-)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
* "Spencer the Rover", Trad. 


	2. The Wanderer's Tale

Chapter Two  
  
A/N As indicated in the previous note, this chapter is narrated by our happy wanderer himself. Given Boromir's tendency towards verbosity (ah, those long dramatic speeches!) I think perhaps the following chapters will not be narrated in this way.  
  
  
  
Know first [he began] that I am Boromir son of Faramir, steward of Gondor, servant of the King, Elessar, and his wife Arwen. I was named after my father's elder brother, who fell honourably in battle some years before my birth; it was under my father's stewardship that the King returned to claim his inheritance, following great and valiant deeds of which even a creature such as yourself must no doubt have heard.  
  
As a child I was fey and roamed the lands outside the borders of my home. I cared little for book learning but favoured adventure and swordplay over all; thus, my early youth was spent escaping the drudgery of the study of lore by abandoning my homeland and expanding my travels. It was on such a long journey, at a tender age, that I first found the Shire, a peaceful place inhabited by the beings that we call Halflings, and which call themselves Hobbits. My desire to visit them was driven mostly by the stories which my father had told me, about the Dark Lord Sauron and the One Ring, and the Fellowship of which my uncle and the King himself were members, of the Halfling who bore the Ring to Mordor and destroyed it, and the return of peace and freedom to Middle-Earth with Sauron's fall. These tales enchanted me; they became my great obsession, which was fuelled by the reminisces of three Hobbits who had journeyed with the original company. When I visited the Shire, I found the Mayor to be none other than Samwise Gamgee, whose name will be forever associated with the Ringbearer; it was he who welcomed me to his household and satisfied my curiosity with endless tales of the Fellowship and its Quest. He also showed me a wonderful book written in part by the Ringbearer himself. And it was there that I met for the first time Sam's eldest daughter Elanor and his son Frodo, of whom I will have more to say shortly.  
  
When I return home from my journey, it occurred to me that King Elessar would certainly be able to satisfy my burning curiosity about the Fellowship of the Ring if only he would; despite my boldness, however, I had not quite the audacity to ask such a thing, although I had been in the King's presence on several occasions. I took therefore to haunting the grounds of the Citadel, hoping that by chance I should see the King and speak with him; and it was there that I met the love of my life and the bane of my heart, the Princess Istelardai; the beautiful, blessed, half- elven daughter of the King. My soul was no longer my own.  
  
She came upon me as I sat alone beside a clear fountain, playing my lyre; she thought the song was pretty and begged me to play it again, which of course I did…she was younger than I, and had seen less of the world, but nevertheless we soon fell to talking, and remained for the most part of the day together, only interrupted by the arrival of the King her father, who smilingly informed me that while I was welcome in his home, my parents were rapidly becoming convinced that I had expired, and thought of sending search parties to find me.  
  
From that day Istelardai and I were friends; I was her favourite playmate, and my stories of my travels and the Fellowship of the Ring, about which she knew surprisingly little, seemed to amuse her. In her heart the princess was every bit as wild and bold as I, and it was with her encouragement that I proposed, on the twenty-first anniversary of the forming of the Fellowship, to gain permission from King Elessar to set out with a band of representatives in the hope of retreading the footsteps of that famous company. It is the tale of that Quest which I now intend to tell you: the story of The Pilgrimage of the Ring.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N Phew! How he does go on ;-) don't worry, the next chapter is written entirely in the third person, and with PLENTY OF DIALOGUE! Apologies for the above monologue, as I said the story writes itself…so blame Boromir! Please review…flames will be fed to my Balrog.  
  
*A/N I really hope this means something like 'silver light of the realm'. Corrections? 


	3. Young Man of Gondor

Chapter Three  
  
A/N Third person narration. And dialogue as promised :-)  
  
-The Shire-  
  
"Well now, young master! And here I was thinking you'd forgotten us!"  
  
"As if I could forget you, Sam!" The young Man stepped gladly over the threshold of Bag End, glad to be back once again in the restful atmosphere of the Shire, and in the company of the Hobbits who interested him so much.  
  
"Well, I'm glad to see you at any rate." Samwise Gamgee declared, embracing his guest briefly before shooing him into the kitchen. "You're always welcome here, my lad, no matter how long you leave it between visits. Well! Haven't you grown? You're almost as tall as old Strider!" Boromir chuckled. It always amused him to hear the King referred to thus.  
  
"Not quite yet, Sam, but soon I shall be. In a year or so I'll have to bend down to get through your door!"  
  
"Sit down, then, before you bang your head on the ceiling. I'll get you some tea and we've got new made biscuits somewhere. Rosie! Rosie, dear, come along, we've got a visitor." Sam bustled off as his wife, a comfortable Hobbit wearing a simple but pretty blue dress, came in to greet the new arrival.  
  
"Here you are again, turning up like a bad penny, I see! Anyone would think you hadn't parents of your own! Do you want us to adopt you?" Smiling she stepped forward and kissed the young Man on the cheek.  
  
"I wouldn't mind." He grinned. "But my father would wonder what had happened to me. Where's Elanor, and Frodo and the rest of the brood?"  
  
"Oh, here and there, who can keep track of them all? I dare say they'll be here shortly. Not those biscuits, dear, they're old. The ones on top of the oven." Sam, who had arrived with a loaded tray, scurried off again, shaking his head, only to return a moment later with a pot of tea and the correct biscuits this time. He set them on the table, then dropped into a chair beside his wife.  
  
"Nothing seems to have changed here." Remarked the guest, taking a biscuit.  
  
"No, no, nothing much does, thank heaven, nothing much does, not in the last twenty years or so anyway. We're all getting a little older but apart from that life goes on the same as ever, eh, my dear?"  
  
"As you say, dear." Replied Rose. "It's as well we have visitors to bring us tidings of far-off lands."  
  
"Right indeed! So what's the news from Gondor? Is the King in good health, and how's your father?"  
  
Boromir was glad to talk at length about these subjects, and kept the Hobbits amused with the tale of how he had slain a vicious wolf stalking the forest near his home, which had preyed upon the animals of the farmers and caused great commotion in the city. Boromir, who had inherited his father's shrewdness, recognised that one Man silently hunting would have more chance with a cunning wolf than a noisy group of angry attackers. Over several days he had tracked the animal, waited for it to emerge from its lair, and killed it via the element of surprised, returning with the tail as a gift for the King. Sam laughed when the young Man explained in unhappy bewilderment how the Princess, far from swooning in admiration at his valour, had lamented the fate of the wolf! King Elessar however had been impressed, though slightly alarmed at the boy's recklessness, and had nicknamed him Rácaumbar*, to the young Man's pride.  
  
Late in the afternoon Sam and Rosie's brood of children arrived, all exclaiming over their long-missed guest. Following afternoon tea, Boromir departed with the eldest of them, Elanor and Frodo, for a ramble through the Shire, and to discuss such things as amuse the young, but serve to exasperate or concern their elders.  
  
"Did you realise," asked the young Man, as they walked, "that soon it will be the twenty-first anniversary of the day - the very day - on which the Fellowship of the Ring was created?"  
  
"The Gaffer made some passing mention of it." Frodo replied. 'The Gaffer' was the name by which he referred to Sam.  
  
"What are we going to do?"  
  
"Do?" Elanor dropped onto the soft springy grass beside the path, pulling Boromir down with her. "What d'you mean? I don't suppose we can do anything. Unless you were thinking of a party or something."  
  
"No, no! Nothing like that. We should do something to mark the occasion: something noble, something exciting, something worthy of our parents! I've had an idea."  
  
"I don't much like your ideas as a rule, Boromir." Muttered Frodo suspiciously, settling down beside them. "They always seem very wild and out-of-the-way to me. You have too many thoughts and passions, that's your problem. It'll get you into trouble some day, you mark my words." Boromir laughed.  
  
"Well I will, Frodo son of Samwise, just so I can prove you wrong! *You* want to hear my plan, don't you, Elanor?"  
  
"O! Yes, very much." Replied the Hobbit-maid, blushing a little.  
  
"Well then, it's this - and when you hear it, you'll change your mind, Frodo…"  
  
  
  
  
  
-The Citadel-  
  
"What *sort* of Quest?" The girl's voice was high and fluting, managing in some way to combine a woman's musical tone with the tempestuous, slightly brattish key of a child. "What do you *mean* by a Quest?"  
  
"Well, you know what a Quest is." The boy's voice was deeper and rougher, but with a lyrical quality of its own. "It's to find something, or travel somewhere, or achieve something. In this case it's a special journey."  
  
"Then why not call it a Journey?"  
  
"Because it's a Quest!" Exclaimed the Steward's son in frustration. The King's daughter regarded her friend with sly amusement.  
  
"I love it when you get angry with me."  
  
"I'm not angry with you. So. Do you think it a good idea or not? You are cleverer than me, Istelardai. Tell me what you think! Would it please the King?"  
  
"Is your only motivation to curry favour with my father?"  
  
"I seek no one's favour!" Growled Boromir furiously. Istelardai laughed, and clapped her hands in delight.  
  
"I say it only to make you scowl at me, my love! You look so dangerous when you scowl. But I am not afraid of you, Boromir. You are my own dear lapsëhuo**."  
  
"You should not call me that when I don't know what it means. It is most impolite."  
  
"Well, if you spoke the language of my mother's people you would know what it meant!"  
  
"You could teach me. I don't like lessons but I would take them from you."  
  
"Perhaps." Murmured Istelardia. A wicked gleam came into her eye. "Ananta, caurënyë vánlyë hanyas, Boromirya.***"  
  
"I do wish you wouldn't do that." He grumbled. She leaned across and pressed his hand.  
  
"I mustn't tease you so cruelly! Your idea is very good. I am sure my father has been considering ways to mark the occasion - after all, the twenty-first anniversary of the Quest of the Ring is an important date."  
  
"Very important!" Replied the young Man, his annoyance forgotten in enthusiasm. "It has always been my dream, Istel, to honour the Fellowship in some way. My uncle would have wanted it, don't you think?"  
  
"I am sure he would." Murmured the princess. "You are very proud of him, I know. And he would have been proud of you. My father says you are much like him in appearance and manner." That pleased the youth immensely.  
  
"My father says the same." Istelardai smiled a little absently. She was deep in thought.  
  
"The best thing to do," she said after a while, "would be to propose the Quest officially to father. Ask his royal favour and that sort of thing. It would mean much to him to have your respect. I'm sure he will say yes, for you are very tall and strong now, and almost of age. And then…we can depart!"  
  
"We?" Boromir had been listening with pleasure to his friend's description of his virtues, but was confused by this last statement.  
  
"I am coming too, of course." The princess replied, as though this was quite inevitable. "If you wish to represent in the company each of those who walked with the Fellowship you must surely have me, to honour my father. Why do you look at me like that? Do you think me too young? I am not a child!" The young Man was doubtful. It had simply not occurred to him, as he had explained his plans excitedly to Istelardai, that she would take it as an invitation. Boromir considered himself a grown and very capable Man, but the princess was almost two years his junior - and a *girl!* This he attempted to explain to her, with such diplomacy as he possessed.  
  
"I think it very hard that you should have so little faith in me." She replied, much hurt. "I may not be as strong as you but I am cleverer, you said that yourself. And I am able to defend myself if necessary. Besides, you speak of taking Halflings, and they are surely equally at risk! They are such small, helpless creatures."  
  
"Do not believe it. Hobbits are a most resilient species and amazingly adaptable. But that is not the point. You are the King's daughter. He would never allow you to go on such a dangerous journey."  
  
"It would not be dangerous."  
  
"But…"  
  
"You will tell him," Istelardai interrupted, in tones that reminded him of her royal blood, "that it will not be dangerous, and that you know the way, and will take care of us."  
  
"But…"  
  
"I stand firm on this, Boromir! If you go on this Quest I shall come with you. And if my father refuses…well, you will have to wait for me at the gates of the city, and there I shall meet you, and we will go ahead without his permission and hope for the best. I won't allow you to neglect me. I yearn for adventure as much as you do. "  
  
"Let us hope then," muttered Boromir, fretfully, "that the King does not refuse."  
  
  
  
  
  
* Wolf's doom  
  
**A/N Puppy-dog  
  
*** A/N 'And yet I fear you will not understand it, dear Boromir" 


End file.
